One morning last week I rang my son and asked if he would like me to get a take away for lunch from Hungry Jack’s. He said he’d love one as long as it didn’t contain tomatoes. I pulled into the Hungry Jack’s drive-through and studied the menu board. Everything had tomatoes and I was beginning to panic as the queue of lunching motorists drove up behind me. The intercom spluttered and crackled and said “place your order.”
I hadn’t made up my mind but the impatient lunchers behind me combined with my unfamiliarity with the process accelerated my decision. “Double Whopper Meal Deal and a Vegetarian Baguette Meal Deal please, I stammered.”
“Sorry, sir, we have no soft drinks,” the voice said. I replied that I wanted a Double Whopper Meal Deal and a Vegetarian Baguette Meal Deal and I hadn’t asked for a soft drink, thank you.
“Drive to the first window,” she said.
As I reached the first window, a charming young lady greeted me with, “Do you still want the Meal Deals, sir, because we have no soft drinks.” Now I don’t mind telling you I was getting a tad irritated by her obsession with soft drinks, not to mention that the tail back had caught up with me and was building ominously. This is when my usual charisma deserted me!
“I already told you, my dear, I want a Double Whopper Meal Deal and a Vegetarian Baguette Meal Deal. I didn’t ask for soft drinks. You are deliberately confusing me. I don’t come to these places very often, in fact, young lady, hardly ever. Now kindly serve my Double Whopper Meal Deal and a Vegetarian Baguette Meal Deal and let’s be having no more of your soft drinks. Thank you.”
That’s when she burst into tears, clearly distressed by something. “What’s ailing you?” I asked, concerned.
“Sir,” she snuffled, “I am only trying to help you. You asked for meal deals and are entitled to a soft drink with each.” This conversation was difficult to follow as she shuddered and shook with sorrow. “But as we have no soft drinks,” (here she goes again!) “I was about to offer you two orange juices in compensation.”
“Oh, I am sorry, so sorry, Chantelle,” I grovelled, glancing at her name badge (a skill honed at countless conferences and government seminars). Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just don’t understand these-drive through thingies. I would be delighted to accept your orange juices.”
I think she was getting over this little debacle when the car behind gave a friendly little blast on its klaxon. Helpfully three others joined in. I was Chantelle’s noble defender now: “Can’t you fellows see the child is upset? For God’s sake give her a break. Would you like to have to put up with morons all day, every day?” That shut them up!
Chantelle handed me the two paper sacks (a trifle roughly, I thought) containing the Meal Deals and a brace of orange juices.
As I pulled away, I could hear Chantelle: “Have a nice day, sir.” She sniffled.
© Chris Skelding 2005
06 January 2010
05 January 2010
TO WHOM DO YOU TALK?
All my life I’ve had a desire to tell someone what I am doing. Am I alone in this?
In particular, if I am doing something new or going somewhere interesting or achieving a special goal, I have to tell someone about it.
In most cases that someone is my father.
Dad died in 2005 but that hasn’t stopped us holding long interesting conversations, just as we did in his lifetime. Again, I wonder if I am the only one who does this.
When he was alive we would talk about the Music Hall singers and comedians that I loved to watch in old films if they had passed away or on television’s Sunday Night at the London Palladium if they were old and grey and still strutting the boards.
Dad had actually watched these Vaudevillians at the still operating Swansea Grand and at the long-closed Swansea Empire when he was a child. He would tell me of the times during the war when an air raid warning siren sounded. The performers would pause their act briefly and invite those who wished to leave to go home to their makeshift air raid shelters. Hardly anyone left and the show went on; Hitler himself had little effect on the Music Hall business!
When I see a great show these days Dad and I compare it to those of long ago.
We would also have long, nostalgic discussions about Prime Minister Mr Wilson, the treacherous Mrs Thatcher and the long lost and lamented Labour Party during the Blair years. Our political chats often get quite heated even now.
When I first worked underground in a dirty Welsh coal mine I was often scared by the huge machinery that loomed out of the gloom. Although dad wasn’t there, I still talked to him and it was comforting. When I learned new things about the mystical craft of coal mining I proudly spoke to him and explained these matters telepathically.
Since he has left us I still have things to tell him. This year of 2009 has been such an interesting one that I have had something to tell him almost every day.
I was in Hong Kong and shared with him the experience of hearing the Noonday Gun of Noel Coward’s song – a song Dad loved.
In Macau we looked at “China across the Bay” as Kipling might have done on the Road to Mandalay.
I told him about my visits to the Rhondda, Aberaeron and the Old Vic Theatre. Am I the only one who does this? Surely not.
We enjoyed a fine single malt whisky at Boat Quay in Singapore’s Chinatown.
He took me to my first rugby match at Cardiff Arms Park in March 1963 when Ireland won 14-6 and we still discuss how we were robbed! He took me to my first greyhound race at Rhydyfelin where my Uncle Billy owned a dog in race 4. I could never understand why Billy fed the dog meat pies just before the race, it was as if he wanted the dog to lose!
I still ask Dad lots of questions about my grandad and other older long-gone family members, but of course, it’s too late. He was a fine man, a good man and a great Dad.
Merry Christmas, old chap.
In particular, if I am doing something new or going somewhere interesting or achieving a special goal, I have to tell someone about it.
In most cases that someone is my father.
Dad died in 2005 but that hasn’t stopped us holding long interesting conversations, just as we did in his lifetime. Again, I wonder if I am the only one who does this.
When he was alive we would talk about the Music Hall singers and comedians that I loved to watch in old films if they had passed away or on television’s Sunday Night at the London Palladium if they were old and grey and still strutting the boards.
Dad had actually watched these Vaudevillians at the still operating Swansea Grand and at the long-closed Swansea Empire when he was a child. He would tell me of the times during the war when an air raid warning siren sounded. The performers would pause their act briefly and invite those who wished to leave to go home to their makeshift air raid shelters. Hardly anyone left and the show went on; Hitler himself had little effect on the Music Hall business!
When I see a great show these days Dad and I compare it to those of long ago.
We would also have long, nostalgic discussions about Prime Minister Mr Wilson, the treacherous Mrs Thatcher and the long lost and lamented Labour Party during the Blair years. Our political chats often get quite heated even now.
When I first worked underground in a dirty Welsh coal mine I was often scared by the huge machinery that loomed out of the gloom. Although dad wasn’t there, I still talked to him and it was comforting. When I learned new things about the mystical craft of coal mining I proudly spoke to him and explained these matters telepathically.
Since he has left us I still have things to tell him. This year of 2009 has been such an interesting one that I have had something to tell him almost every day.
I was in Hong Kong and shared with him the experience of hearing the Noonday Gun of Noel Coward’s song – a song Dad loved.
In Macau we looked at “China across the Bay” as Kipling might have done on the Road to Mandalay.
I told him about my visits to the Rhondda, Aberaeron and the Old Vic Theatre. Am I the only one who does this? Surely not.
We enjoyed a fine single malt whisky at Boat Quay in Singapore’s Chinatown.
He took me to my first rugby match at Cardiff Arms Park in March 1963 when Ireland won 14-6 and we still discuss how we were robbed! He took me to my first greyhound race at Rhydyfelin where my Uncle Billy owned a dog in race 4. I could never understand why Billy fed the dog meat pies just before the race, it was as if he wanted the dog to lose!
I still ask Dad lots of questions about my grandad and other older long-gone family members, but of course, it’s too late. He was a fine man, a good man and a great Dad.
Merry Christmas, old chap.
Chris Skelding 2009
DISASTER WHILE SAILING THE CORAL SEA
Carlo was about ten years old, that first (and last) time the Tychsen family came to the Royal Papua Yacht Club to sail on my boat. He was a rotund, greasy haired, well-upholstered young man whose mother had spoiled him to Hell and back. I hear that is the way with some Italian mothers – very loving, perhaps too loving. Carlo and I eyed each other off from the moment he waddled behind his mum and dad along the Yacht Club jetty. It was instant enmity. I am prepared to accept that first impressions can sometimes be deceptive but not on this occasion. It was a sort of … loath at first sight.
He looked at me, his dark brown eyes glaring through the black curly tousle of his hair. He was like an alley cat warning me that he would scratch and bite if I didn’t keep my distance. Now I have to say that I am never one to judge people without getting to know them first but in Carlo’s case I made an exception. No doubt his mum and dad loved him but he was from the Dark Side! I disliked him instantly and the feeling was mutual.
He wore a pair of beige shorts that were so tight on his plump buttocks that they cut deeply into his thighs giving him more than a passing resemblance to the Michelin Man. His canvass deck shoes were brand new, bought especially by mum for this, his first voyage out onto the open sea. His outfit was topped off with a pastel blue t-shirt that sported a little red-sailed yacht on the left breast pocket. Very appropriate, for a day on the ocean, I thought.
None of them had ever sailed before, so I thought it wise to give a short safety talk before we cast off on our pleasure trip to Fisherman’s Island (also known as Daugo Island named for the two villages on the island – Dag and Ugo). I stepped off the prow of the 21 foot Scimitar and greeted Graeme and Angela warmly, smiling weakly at Carlo with a mutual disdain. “Welcome to my little craft,” I said, “I hope you will enjoy a few hours away from the city in the beautiful Coral Sea.”
“It’s very kind of you to ask us,” replied Graeme graciously, “we are looking forward to a day on the briny.”
“I hope you don’t mind, Chris, but I brought a little picnic for us, in case we get hungry,” said Angela, “you never know.” I could see that Carlo was already salivating at the thought of an early repast.
Now I am not kidding when I say that Angela is an archetypical Italian woman. Stout would describe her build very adequately and jolly her demeanour. Her breasts and buttocks were generous, her eyes gay and sparkling and her whole appearance very Mediterranean being paradoxically dressed in a voluminous flowing bombazine dress that at once modestly concealed her legs yet proudly displayed her magnificent breasts.
The “little picnic” consisted of two large wicker hampers that Angela carried stacked in her arms, two family size eskies that Graeme carried and a medium portmanteau that Carlo dragged slothfully along the deck boards of the jetty. The mysterious contents of the “little” picnic would be revealed as the day unfolded.
During the safety briefing, I told them what we could expect by way of weather, there having been no adverse warnings on the morning’s forecast. I told them that we would be doing a few laps up and down Fairfax harbour to give us all a chance to get comfortable with the motion and the stability of the boat. I explained where everyone should sit and that we would have to concentrate very carefully on the tasks of raising and setting sails until we were clear of the harbour and out on the open sea.
Throughout this address Graeme and Angela listened carefully with serious expressions while Carlo picked his nose and generally looked uninterested. So I went into overdrive. “And remember, there is only one Captain on a ship,” I boomed, finally getting the brat’s attention. “And he is the one wearing the gold braid on his hat!” I exclaimed, setting squarely on my head the ship’s captain’s hat that Julia had once bought me.” Angela and Graeme laughed. Carlo glowered.
So with that, we boarded Scimitar, stowed the little picnic in the cabin and I fired up the 15 hp Mariner. My guests began to get excited as we reversed out of the mooring and wove our way around the other berthed vessels in the old marina. It was a slow and careful exercise as the corners were tight and most of the other vessels were larger and much more expensive than Scimitar. After a few minutes, though, we left the marina and I increased the speed to head out to the middle of the spacious harbour that lies majestically on the western boundary of Port Moresby.
I cut the engine and advised Angela as diplomatically as I could that she would be better staying put while the guys did all the work. She was happy with that suggestion so I told Graeme and Carlo what they had to do to raise the mainsail and jib sail. Carlo was not happy with my telling him what to do but Graeme nudged him along and he heeded me for the moment.
It was a gentle wind that caught the sails and I turned the prow towards the wreck of the World War II supply ship MV MacDhui. This vessel has lain in the middle of the harbour with her hull projecting up to 10 metres above the surface since 18 June 1942. She was first attacked by 18 Betty Bomber and 9 Zeroes from the Japanese air force while unloading aviation spirit. The vessel sustained a direct hit but limped to the wharf to offload the dead and injured. The following day, the same attacking squadron hit the MacDhui again finally sinking her with further loss of life. As a memento the Royal Papua Yacht Club had long since removed a mast from the Macdhui and erected it outside the club veranda.
As we sailed around the MacDhui the strange creatures that were hopping and skipping on the upturned hull of the ship engaged us. There were dozens of these lizards and they played gaily on the rusting steel as we watched. We were confident now of our ability to leave the safety of the harbour and make for the open sea, so I called for a change in heading and we headed for the shallow passage between Twin Island and the Western Heads. The wind was still fairly gentle and we sailed with building assurance that we were able to handle anything that the lovely Coral Sea could present us with.
The wind was blowing from the south-east which gave us a perfect run to our destination, Fisherman’s Island 5 kilometres to the west.
It was perfect; we just drifted along and soaked up the beauty of the reef and the crystal gentle, waters. Graeme had taken up a position astride the bow dangling his bare feet in the passing foam. Angela was watching wistfully at Fisherman’s Island in the distance and Carlo was splashing his hands in Scimitar’s wake. We were all silent, just enjoying the pleasure of the moment when two dorsal fins simultaneously broke surface at the bow. “Shark!” screamed Angela as Carlo dived for the safety of the cabin, “Help!”
Graeme recognised them for what they were and shouted, “No, darling, they are dolphins, aren’t they lovely?” The friendly fellows came so close to the boat we could touch them. Even Carlo recovered and came to the bow to marvel at the creatures. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they dived and were gone which was just as well because we were almost in the lee of Fisherman’s Island and had to prepare to drop anchor at our destination.
The water in the Coral Sea is especially clear and as we slowed it sparkled and shimmered. Carlo swiftly stripped to his swimming trunks and was first over the side with a splash that sent a geyser of foam high into the air. Graham and I followed down the short ladder at the stern so that we could help Angela into the water.
We frolicked and played for 20 minutes when Angela decided we should begin the picnic. Carlo and I climbed aboard and pulled Angela up as Graeme pushed her behind from below. It was tough going but we finally landed her. When she had recovered she opened the hampers and produced chicken, hams, salads, salami and a few bottles of icy cold, crisp, white pinot grigio. We dined in spectacular fashion and then lay back to rest, full and sated.
It was then that Carlo said, “Hey Chris, look at the clouds behind you.” I turned to look back across the reef to the south east to see a huge black storm cloud some 10 kilometres away.
That’s when I made a big mistake.
“Let’s get going,” I said, “pack the lunch away and raise the sails.” It might have been smarter if I had told everyone to sit tight and carry on eating and drinking.
But I didn’t.
We stowed the hampers and empty bottles and set off from the safety of Fisherman’s Island with both mainsail and foresail fully up. We made good speed over the first kilometre as the wind picked up in front of the storm. Then the wind strengthened and we were struggling to hold her upright.
Graeme and I reefed in both sails and the wind kept strengthening. Then it rained, big heavy spots lashed across the deck. As the wind became even stronger it was clear that we couldn’t hold her on the sails.
I started the outboard and asked Graeme to lower the sails completely. I was scared but I don’t think I showed it. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I turned to tell Angela and Carlo to go below deck but they had already done so.
We were now perhaps half way back to Moresby Harbour and I decided to keep going, there really wasn’t much other choice. The wind was now deafening, the rain blinding and the boat pitched and tossed frightfully. Angela and Carlo were crying and Graeme and I hung onto the rails for grim death. I didn’t know one could be so scared.
Each time the prow dived into the waves, the motor would lift out of the water and we would lose forward way. There was nothing to do but try and steer easterly and hope that we would make it through the passage off the Western Heads.
As well as being soaked, deaf and blind we were so cold in our shorts and tee-shirts that it was like rounding the Horn in winter. On we went with only a slight hope that we were on the right course. We had been battling our way back to the mainland for over an hour now and the storm still raged. I had a feeling – no more than a feeling, that we were close to the final passage into the harbour.
The rain seemed to be easing and I heard a scraping noise as the keel struck bottom. It must have been a shallow reef, I thought, but then as the wind dropped and visibility returned I realised that the keel had scraped the rocks at the bottom of the shallow passage between the Western Heads and Twin Island.
Oh Joy! We were back in the harbour and safe.
Angela and Carlo emerged from the sanctuary of the galley as Graeme and I hugged each other in sheer relief. We didn’t bother doing a victory lap of the harbour but went straight to the mooring, tied up and climbed the stairs to the veranda of the Royal Papua Yacht Club and ordered a white wine for Angela, a coke for Carlo and two large whiskies for Graeme and me.
We sat on the veranda stools in silence. Not a word was spoken for some time. I don’t know what the others were thinking but my mind was focussed on the lucky escape we had all just had. How foolish to sail straight into a tropical storm and risk four lives.
I stared at the MacDhui’s white mast with its spreader which looked exactly like one of the three crosses on that Green Hill Far Away. I thanked God for deliverance and promised Him I would never take a boat to sea again.
And I have kept that promise.
Chris Skelding 1993
He looked at me, his dark brown eyes glaring through the black curly tousle of his hair. He was like an alley cat warning me that he would scratch and bite if I didn’t keep my distance. Now I have to say that I am never one to judge people without getting to know them first but in Carlo’s case I made an exception. No doubt his mum and dad loved him but he was from the Dark Side! I disliked him instantly and the feeling was mutual.
He wore a pair of beige shorts that were so tight on his plump buttocks that they cut deeply into his thighs giving him more than a passing resemblance to the Michelin Man. His canvass deck shoes were brand new, bought especially by mum for this, his first voyage out onto the open sea. His outfit was topped off with a pastel blue t-shirt that sported a little red-sailed yacht on the left breast pocket. Very appropriate, for a day on the ocean, I thought.
None of them had ever sailed before, so I thought it wise to give a short safety talk before we cast off on our pleasure trip to Fisherman’s Island (also known as Daugo Island named for the two villages on the island – Dag and Ugo). I stepped off the prow of the 21 foot Scimitar and greeted Graeme and Angela warmly, smiling weakly at Carlo with a mutual disdain. “Welcome to my little craft,” I said, “I hope you will enjoy a few hours away from the city in the beautiful Coral Sea.”
“It’s very kind of you to ask us,” replied Graeme graciously, “we are looking forward to a day on the briny.”
“I hope you don’t mind, Chris, but I brought a little picnic for us, in case we get hungry,” said Angela, “you never know.” I could see that Carlo was already salivating at the thought of an early repast.
Now I am not kidding when I say that Angela is an archetypical Italian woman. Stout would describe her build very adequately and jolly her demeanour. Her breasts and buttocks were generous, her eyes gay and sparkling and her whole appearance very Mediterranean being paradoxically dressed in a voluminous flowing bombazine dress that at once modestly concealed her legs yet proudly displayed her magnificent breasts.
The “little picnic” consisted of two large wicker hampers that Angela carried stacked in her arms, two family size eskies that Graeme carried and a medium portmanteau that Carlo dragged slothfully along the deck boards of the jetty. The mysterious contents of the “little” picnic would be revealed as the day unfolded.
During the safety briefing, I told them what we could expect by way of weather, there having been no adverse warnings on the morning’s forecast. I told them that we would be doing a few laps up and down Fairfax harbour to give us all a chance to get comfortable with the motion and the stability of the boat. I explained where everyone should sit and that we would have to concentrate very carefully on the tasks of raising and setting sails until we were clear of the harbour and out on the open sea.
Throughout this address Graeme and Angela listened carefully with serious expressions while Carlo picked his nose and generally looked uninterested. So I went into overdrive. “And remember, there is only one Captain on a ship,” I boomed, finally getting the brat’s attention. “And he is the one wearing the gold braid on his hat!” I exclaimed, setting squarely on my head the ship’s captain’s hat that Julia had once bought me.” Angela and Graeme laughed. Carlo glowered.
So with that, we boarded Scimitar, stowed the little picnic in the cabin and I fired up the 15 hp Mariner. My guests began to get excited as we reversed out of the mooring and wove our way around the other berthed vessels in the old marina. It was a slow and careful exercise as the corners were tight and most of the other vessels were larger and much more expensive than Scimitar. After a few minutes, though, we left the marina and I increased the speed to head out to the middle of the spacious harbour that lies majestically on the western boundary of Port Moresby.
I cut the engine and advised Angela as diplomatically as I could that she would be better staying put while the guys did all the work. She was happy with that suggestion so I told Graeme and Carlo what they had to do to raise the mainsail and jib sail. Carlo was not happy with my telling him what to do but Graeme nudged him along and he heeded me for the moment.
It was a gentle wind that caught the sails and I turned the prow towards the wreck of the World War II supply ship MV MacDhui. This vessel has lain in the middle of the harbour with her hull projecting up to 10 metres above the surface since 18 June 1942. She was first attacked by 18 Betty Bomber and 9 Zeroes from the Japanese air force while unloading aviation spirit. The vessel sustained a direct hit but limped to the wharf to offload the dead and injured. The following day, the same attacking squadron hit the MacDhui again finally sinking her with further loss of life. As a memento the Royal Papua Yacht Club had long since removed a mast from the Macdhui and erected it outside the club veranda.
As we sailed around the MacDhui the strange creatures that were hopping and skipping on the upturned hull of the ship engaged us. There were dozens of these lizards and they played gaily on the rusting steel as we watched. We were confident now of our ability to leave the safety of the harbour and make for the open sea, so I called for a change in heading and we headed for the shallow passage between Twin Island and the Western Heads. The wind was still fairly gentle and we sailed with building assurance that we were able to handle anything that the lovely Coral Sea could present us with.
The wind was blowing from the south-east which gave us a perfect run to our destination, Fisherman’s Island 5 kilometres to the west.
It was perfect; we just drifted along and soaked up the beauty of the reef and the crystal gentle, waters. Graeme had taken up a position astride the bow dangling his bare feet in the passing foam. Angela was watching wistfully at Fisherman’s Island in the distance and Carlo was splashing his hands in Scimitar’s wake. We were all silent, just enjoying the pleasure of the moment when two dorsal fins simultaneously broke surface at the bow. “Shark!” screamed Angela as Carlo dived for the safety of the cabin, “Help!”
Graeme recognised them for what they were and shouted, “No, darling, they are dolphins, aren’t they lovely?” The friendly fellows came so close to the boat we could touch them. Even Carlo recovered and came to the bow to marvel at the creatures. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they dived and were gone which was just as well because we were almost in the lee of Fisherman’s Island and had to prepare to drop anchor at our destination.
The water in the Coral Sea is especially clear and as we slowed it sparkled and shimmered. Carlo swiftly stripped to his swimming trunks and was first over the side with a splash that sent a geyser of foam high into the air. Graham and I followed down the short ladder at the stern so that we could help Angela into the water.
We frolicked and played for 20 minutes when Angela decided we should begin the picnic. Carlo and I climbed aboard and pulled Angela up as Graeme pushed her behind from below. It was tough going but we finally landed her. When she had recovered she opened the hampers and produced chicken, hams, salads, salami and a few bottles of icy cold, crisp, white pinot grigio. We dined in spectacular fashion and then lay back to rest, full and sated.
It was then that Carlo said, “Hey Chris, look at the clouds behind you.” I turned to look back across the reef to the south east to see a huge black storm cloud some 10 kilometres away.
That’s when I made a big mistake.
“Let’s get going,” I said, “pack the lunch away and raise the sails.” It might have been smarter if I had told everyone to sit tight and carry on eating and drinking.
But I didn’t.
We stowed the hampers and empty bottles and set off from the safety of Fisherman’s Island with both mainsail and foresail fully up. We made good speed over the first kilometre as the wind picked up in front of the storm. Then the wind strengthened and we were struggling to hold her upright.
Graeme and I reefed in both sails and the wind kept strengthening. Then it rained, big heavy spots lashed across the deck. As the wind became even stronger it was clear that we couldn’t hold her on the sails.
I started the outboard and asked Graeme to lower the sails completely. I was scared but I don’t think I showed it. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I turned to tell Angela and Carlo to go below deck but they had already done so.
We were now perhaps half way back to Moresby Harbour and I decided to keep going, there really wasn’t much other choice. The wind was now deafening, the rain blinding and the boat pitched and tossed frightfully. Angela and Carlo were crying and Graeme and I hung onto the rails for grim death. I didn’t know one could be so scared.
Each time the prow dived into the waves, the motor would lift out of the water and we would lose forward way. There was nothing to do but try and steer easterly and hope that we would make it through the passage off the Western Heads.
As well as being soaked, deaf and blind we were so cold in our shorts and tee-shirts that it was like rounding the Horn in winter. On we went with only a slight hope that we were on the right course. We had been battling our way back to the mainland for over an hour now and the storm still raged. I had a feeling – no more than a feeling, that we were close to the final passage into the harbour.
The rain seemed to be easing and I heard a scraping noise as the keel struck bottom. It must have been a shallow reef, I thought, but then as the wind dropped and visibility returned I realised that the keel had scraped the rocks at the bottom of the shallow passage between the Western Heads and Twin Island.
Oh Joy! We were back in the harbour and safe.
Angela and Carlo emerged from the sanctuary of the galley as Graeme and I hugged each other in sheer relief. We didn’t bother doing a victory lap of the harbour but went straight to the mooring, tied up and climbed the stairs to the veranda of the Royal Papua Yacht Club and ordered a white wine for Angela, a coke for Carlo and two large whiskies for Graeme and me.
We sat on the veranda stools in silence. Not a word was spoken for some time. I don’t know what the others were thinking but my mind was focussed on the lucky escape we had all just had. How foolish to sail straight into a tropical storm and risk four lives.
I stared at the MacDhui’s white mast with its spreader which looked exactly like one of the three crosses on that Green Hill Far Away. I thanked God for deliverance and promised Him I would never take a boat to sea again.
And I have kept that promise.
Chris Skelding 1993
ABERAERON VISIT 2009
It’s a very special day. I am to visit Aberaeron with my Welsh family.
We are in West Wales to celebrate mother’s 80th birthday and a dozen of us are spending the weekend at a luxuriously refurbished barn in the heart of Tregaron Bog.
A bog in Wales doesn’t sound romantic, does it? But this is a raised bog, one that has built up over the past 12,000 years from countless layers of peat deposits.
The bog consists of 2,000 acres of reedbed, wet grassland, rivers, streams, ponds and woodland. Its star attraction is the legendary Red Kite.
Across the entire United Kingdom the Red Kite was once so plentiful that Shakespeare referred to London as the “city of kites and crows.” But by the 1870s they were extinct in England and by the 1930s only two pairs remained in Wales.
This tragic situation was reversed by a concentrated conservation and breeding program and latest figures suggest over 800 pairs in Wales alone – mostly in Tregaron Bog. I am happy to report that this bird is back!
They are a magnificent bird of prey and we saw many of them in early morning flapping take-off to glorious, lofty, soaring flight during the warmth of the afternoon.
We watched them from the picture window of our cosy barn and from the bubbling hot tub and in the bog itself. What a pleasure.
After a gargantuan Welsh breakfast we trouped off to Aberaeron, a pretty little fishing village on the coast of Cardigan Bay.
As European towns go Aberaeron is fairly young. It was created by Act of Parliament in 1807 in gratitude to the grandly named Reverend Alban Thomas Jones Gwynne for rebuilding the harbour at his own expense.
Well, I for one am glad he did so because this place has been a family niche for decades. In the 1950s my parents brought me here for holidays and in the1970s I brought my three youngsters here to fish for crabs. And today my granddaughter Robyn is angling here under her mum’s tutelage.
Not big, tasty Keppel Sands crabs, mind you. The Aberaeron Harbour crabs are 3 inches across the shell at most and Heaven knows what they would taste like.
We wanted the simple pleasure of catching the critters, holding them in a bucket for a few hours and then witnessing the reactions when the bucket was emptied on the quayside just at the moment a few visiting old ladies were passing.
The crabs would unerringly make for the sea as the ladies turned tail and scrambled for the tour bus. Priceless fun at no cost!
I also have a fond distant memory of sitting on the quay with my daughter and watching a seal in the harbour at sunset.
Aberaeron is a picture of pastel painted terraced houses which run parallel to the River Aeron. Even on dismal grey rainy days the soft colours are somehow cheerful. The large white house right on the harbour was once the home of Sir Geraint Evans, doyen of operatic baritones and prince of Covent Garden.
The pubs are many and varied in Aberaeron and there is a warm and lingering welcome in every one. Just as there was in the days when Sunday drinking was banned in these parts, there was always a back door for thirsty travellers. It seemed to taste much better at the back door with the curtains drawn closed.
And then there is the Jazz Festival and the Rugby Sevens but they must wait for another tale.
But I must tell you about the honey ice cream they sell at the Hive on the Quay as they did long ago. I must go back and taste it again some day.
Roll on Mam’s 90th!
We are in West Wales to celebrate mother’s 80th birthday and a dozen of us are spending the weekend at a luxuriously refurbished barn in the heart of Tregaron Bog.
A bog in Wales doesn’t sound romantic, does it? But this is a raised bog, one that has built up over the past 12,000 years from countless layers of peat deposits.
The bog consists of 2,000 acres of reedbed, wet grassland, rivers, streams, ponds and woodland. Its star attraction is the legendary Red Kite.
Across the entire United Kingdom the Red Kite was once so plentiful that Shakespeare referred to London as the “city of kites and crows.” But by the 1870s they were extinct in England and by the 1930s only two pairs remained in Wales.
This tragic situation was reversed by a concentrated conservation and breeding program and latest figures suggest over 800 pairs in Wales alone – mostly in Tregaron Bog. I am happy to report that this bird is back!
They are a magnificent bird of prey and we saw many of them in early morning flapping take-off to glorious, lofty, soaring flight during the warmth of the afternoon.
We watched them from the picture window of our cosy barn and from the bubbling hot tub and in the bog itself. What a pleasure.
After a gargantuan Welsh breakfast we trouped off to Aberaeron, a pretty little fishing village on the coast of Cardigan Bay.
As European towns go Aberaeron is fairly young. It was created by Act of Parliament in 1807 in gratitude to the grandly named Reverend Alban Thomas Jones Gwynne for rebuilding the harbour at his own expense.
Well, I for one am glad he did so because this place has been a family niche for decades. In the 1950s my parents brought me here for holidays and in the1970s I brought my three youngsters here to fish for crabs. And today my granddaughter Robyn is angling here under her mum’s tutelage.
Not big, tasty Keppel Sands crabs, mind you. The Aberaeron Harbour crabs are 3 inches across the shell at most and Heaven knows what they would taste like.
We wanted the simple pleasure of catching the critters, holding them in a bucket for a few hours and then witnessing the reactions when the bucket was emptied on the quayside just at the moment a few visiting old ladies were passing.
The crabs would unerringly make for the sea as the ladies turned tail and scrambled for the tour bus. Priceless fun at no cost!
I also have a fond distant memory of sitting on the quay with my daughter and watching a seal in the harbour at sunset.
Aberaeron is a picture of pastel painted terraced houses which run parallel to the River Aeron. Even on dismal grey rainy days the soft colours are somehow cheerful. The large white house right on the harbour was once the home of Sir Geraint Evans, doyen of operatic baritones and prince of Covent Garden.
The pubs are many and varied in Aberaeron and there is a warm and lingering welcome in every one. Just as there was in the days when Sunday drinking was banned in these parts, there was always a back door for thirsty travellers. It seemed to taste much better at the back door with the curtains drawn closed.
And then there is the Jazz Festival and the Rugby Sevens but they must wait for another tale.
But I must tell you about the honey ice cream they sell at the Hive on the Quay as they did long ago. I must go back and taste it again some day.
Roll on Mam’s 90th!
Chris Skelding September 2009
REBECCA'S PET
Rebecca brought one of her pets into the office the other day. She thought the little fellow deserved a bit of a change from his hum drum life - a special treat.
He’s called GT and he was obviously excited to be on a holiday. He was enjoying his visit to our office and the experience of a new environment.
Most of the team were pleased to see him and made him welcome. Well, those who spotted him made him welcome. You see, Rebecca didn’t really advertise his presence, she merely brought him in and put him near the window in his container and let him settle in.
Some of our team were a little shocked, who, when talking to Rebecca, sensed a movement in the corner of their eye. Startled, they skipped a heartbeat but soon warmed to the cheeky chappie.
My own first sight of him was when I saw him gazing wistfully out of the window of our 5th floor office. Just like a smart dog he sat at the window with his paws (?) on the sill and was clearly captivated with what was going on outside.
He was watching the traffic intently and peering at the Fitzroy in the background. His pleasure at being able to survey the busy cityscape was evident. His intelligence impressed me.
Yes, his obvious intelligence impressed me considerably because I didn’t realise that reptiles were particularly intelligent. GT is a Central Bearded Dragon.
The Bearded Dragon, is sometimes known as the Lizard of Oz. It’s a popular type of pet reptile, both here and around the world. The name comes from the beard-like frill that they have below their jaw. There are eight species in existence but the two most commonly kept as pets are the Western Bearded Dragon and the Central Bearded Dragon.
Rebecca breeds these lovely critters and has four adults and about 28 little juveniles. I asked Bec about the intelligence of the dragons.
She said, “They are intelligent but they don’t come when called, so I guess they don’t know their names.”
Bec explained how the dragons naturally fear any shadowy forms in the air and take cover suspecting birds of prey are hunting them. However, and this is the smart bit: Bec lives under the Rocky airport flight path and the dragons have learned over time to distinguish between birds of prey and aircraft. How about that?!
GT the Central Bearded Dragon has changed my view of the reptilian world.
Chris Skelding
February 2009
He’s called GT and he was obviously excited to be on a holiday. He was enjoying his visit to our office and the experience of a new environment.
Most of the team were pleased to see him and made him welcome. Well, those who spotted him made him welcome. You see, Rebecca didn’t really advertise his presence, she merely brought him in and put him near the window in his container and let him settle in.
Some of our team were a little shocked, who, when talking to Rebecca, sensed a movement in the corner of their eye. Startled, they skipped a heartbeat but soon warmed to the cheeky chappie.
My own first sight of him was when I saw him gazing wistfully out of the window of our 5th floor office. Just like a smart dog he sat at the window with his paws (?) on the sill and was clearly captivated with what was going on outside.
He was watching the traffic intently and peering at the Fitzroy in the background. His pleasure at being able to survey the busy cityscape was evident. His intelligence impressed me.
Yes, his obvious intelligence impressed me considerably because I didn’t realise that reptiles were particularly intelligent. GT is a Central Bearded Dragon.
The Bearded Dragon, is sometimes known as the Lizard of Oz. It’s a popular type of pet reptile, both here and around the world. The name comes from the beard-like frill that they have below their jaw. There are eight species in existence but the two most commonly kept as pets are the Western Bearded Dragon and the Central Bearded Dragon.
Rebecca breeds these lovely critters and has four adults and about 28 little juveniles. I asked Bec about the intelligence of the dragons.
She said, “They are intelligent but they don’t come when called, so I guess they don’t know their names.”
Bec explained how the dragons naturally fear any shadowy forms in the air and take cover suspecting birds of prey are hunting them. However, and this is the smart bit: Bec lives under the Rocky airport flight path and the dragons have learned over time to distinguish between birds of prey and aircraft. How about that?!
GT the Central Bearded Dragon has changed my view of the reptilian world.
Chris Skelding
February 2009
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